


Quietly Held (12.04.19)

by Angel_made_of_scars



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Can be read as whichever pairing you want, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Original Character(s), Other, Panic Attacks, Reader-Insert, Trauma, no pronouns, or no pairing at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25976524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angel_made_of_scars/pseuds/Angel_made_of_scars
Summary: After traumatic events for all the housemates of the bunker, they find ways to comfort each other. -Reader- Needs comfort just as much, but gives it as well.Written December 14th, 2019.
Relationships: Castiel (Supernatural)/You, Dean Winchester/You, Sam Winchester/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	Quietly Held (12.04.19)

**Author's Note:**

> Written December 14th, 2019. Originally meant to be a four part short ficlet series, but probably never will. This is a stand alone though, and makes sense on its own.

After the boys had both been to hell, it was more of a chore than ever to sleep. Especially when the nightmares came. Sam could remember the cage. He could remember the visions. He could remember the cold, and the fires, and the darkness, the elements twisting to create... hell.

After their friend went to hell, it got harder. They sat in their room for hours, mindless tv playing, along with equally numbing music blasting from their tablet, scrolling their phone. Anything and everything to stay occupied, and awake.

The lights stayed on. Sam has trouble adjusting after he came back, but not in the same way. They were different. Skilled in a way he had never seen, able to track down anyone with a thought of which direction they “felt” the person had gone. Often crying when finding a victim, or a killer. Often retreating and relapsing to silence, nonverbal in their room. Often even eating becoming a struggle, as it just created nausea.

Something as simple as empathy creating the perfect tracker, the perfect hunter, the perfect person to take out anyone who would destroy others, but crushed to see anyone hurting. Hell tore them apart.

As time marched on, they drifted. Between Dean, Cas, and Sam. Dean may ask where they went, only for Cas to enter the room, minus his coat. The smells of a familiar person the only thing strong enough to conquer the anxiety bubbling in their stomach.

A familiar scene. He would tell them everything was alright, before saying he needed to let the others know where they went. And they would panic, anxiety bubbling, feeling the pricks of pain on their skin, seeing red and dull hues of swirling dirty green wind, seeing bodies littering the floor-

Until a jacket draped over their shoulders, a solid hand leaving it there, before retreating, the smell of rain, ozone, leather. The smell of earth. And the worn fabric. And Cas would nod alright before retreating.  
  


* * *

  
Other times, it was Dean they sought out. He had spent the most time in hell, between them. He had done awful things, not only watching, being shown, but engaging. They knew he had been twisted. They knew he was better now, mentally, not physically, and not all the way in any case. But he had compassion, no matter what he showed to anyone else, or how he showed that to them.

Upon coming across them in the kitchen, huddled with their back to the wall, eyes defensively scanning the room, tactical, while scarfing down a slice of cheddar cheese, he sighed, and nodded his head towards the hallway. He lead them to their room, let them get settled, before returning with a gift a nice music shop owner with a haunted piano had given him.

He strummed the guitar a bit more confidently than before, every day getting better, and played simple songs while the tutorials on the strings played from his phone. And they settled, their anxiety finally shuttering to a stop enough to lay down.  
  


* * *

  
Sam was different, in his own right. They had episodes of anxiety, pain, illness. But Sam did as well, just as sensitive to the nightmares he had always had, more willing to show discomfort, if not talk about things. His hand still bothered him sometimes.

On late nights, where Sam wanted nothing but silence from the terrors, and he sat awake, alone in the main hall, listen for any minute noise to defend the others against, they would come to his side. They would bring his flannel.

His flannel, with the silly pockets on the front flaps at the bottom, almost like a hoodie. They would sit on the floor and wait for him to put it on. Then, he would sit down beside them, and stick his hand in the pocket, away from where he could mess with it. Away from the nagging sensation to press on it, or scratch it.

They would slide their hand in beside his, barely fitting, and take it in their grasp. They would lean together as tight as possible, feeling body heat against body heat, grounding, listening to the others’ breaths. And slowly, even through short boughs of hyperventilation, and twitching muscles aching from fight or flight, they would settle. Enough that when they could breathe, and the smell of anxiety sweat was too much, they would get up to go take showers.

Alone, but on watch. They sat on the floor of the washroom as Sam showered, and hummed, and then he did the same after getting dressed, playing the news, or other droning topics on his phone to fill the silence. They would go back to their room, and sit in the bed, the mindless noise still playing as they tried to sleep.  
  


* * *

  
If ever they found one of the men having struggles, Sam rubbing at his hand in the backseat with them, looking out the window at every bump, Cas pacing, not sure what to do with his own new fears, and Dean in his room, drowning out the world with headphones and jack, they would come to them as well.

They would reach out a hand to hold, squeezing it rather than making it raw from rubbing, and once in a while drawing smooth circles with their thumb on the back. They would pull out a game on their phone in the other hand, something for Sams eyes to catch and dissolve into.

They would sit down and wait with Cas, and ask what they could do to help, or ask to go see somewhere peaceful that they could rest. A field, or a park bench. The flower fields in Japan being their favorite, whether dark outside or sunny, as all you could see was the peaceful twirl of the blossoms in the breeze. Something soothing. Something Cas knee to be created by God, but not bring harm.

They would bring Dean baked goods, home made, things they made to keep themself occupied, but needed to be shared, before sitting down and asking to turn the music up on the speaker. From cookie dough to eat raw, to poorly designed cupcakes, delicious but sloppy. They knew his favorite was pie, and were pretty good at apple, that being a staple anxiety snack.

Their family, the one they chose, and loved, was not perfect. None of them were. Castiel recently remembered who he was. Dean still had visions of killing throughout the night, and Sam had dreams of being tortured, and the constant nagging idea that nothing was real.

They themselves had such bad anxiety from the experience of watching people die, over and over, and being cut to pieces themselves, that some days on hunts they would simply not be able to proceed, not able to bring themselves to do that to the creatures they were after, even if it was only deserved, and a monster. But the other took care of that, while they stayed on research if needed. A few times doing the same for Dean, after he quietly, and in confidence admitted to not wanting to kill anything for a bit, to try to bring his mind back.

It was alright. It wasn’t good, the situation they were in, but they were always safe with each other. They had their own coping techniques, and their own systems, worked out quietly, with almost no words. They knew they were safe with these boys, for as long as they had been here, and as long as they would be in the future. Living with fear wasn’t pretty. But it was getting easier.


End file.
